"Loss alone is but the wounding of a heart; it is memory that makes it our ruin."
― Brian Ruckley
The warm and familiar arms of his mother are wrapped around him, lifting him up towards her with the strong and usual ease she always displayed, a rare and gentle smile shapes her lips, an expression he swore she saved just for him, as her finger tips brush the wayward crimson tendrils of his hair away from his forehead. Her eyes sparkle and glimmer with a look of pure love, admiration and affection, before she presses a soft kiss to his forehead, the tenderness of her kiss causing the young James Rogers to allow a smile to creep across his petite lips. Beside her his father comes striding forward, his towering and powerful figure emitting his usual comforting presence, he too displays an expression of fondness that could rival only his mothers, his brilliant smile causing two dimples to etch their way upon his handsome and chiselled features. His gentle and kind voice permeates the seemingly stark silence, bringing with it a jovial reassurance,
"Come here you." Placing his hands underneath James's arms, his large hands almost encompass completely his son's torso; he procures him from his mother's supportive embrace, before holding him above his head. As he does so he twirls and dips him in and out of the air, in a manner that very much replicates the flight patterns his Uncle Tony would do especially for him, always coercing squeals and giggles of amusement and excitement at the bravery and skill of one of his many Uncles. A voice murmurs from behind his parents, causing them both to turn and cast their attention briefly to their informant, before they both nod in affirmation and cast their attention back onto their son. His father brings him close to his chest, allowing his little hands to rest on his father's firm and broad chest, his fingers curling ever so slightly into the grey material of his father's t-shirt, induced by a feeling of discomfort at their obvious upcoming absence. Clearly noting the glassy sheen that had glossed it's way over his sons crystal blue eyes, he brushes the pad of his thumb over the soft and smooth expanse of his child's cheek before uttering in a hushed soothing tone,
"Hey... don't you worry, we'll be back soon." Glancing up at his father's face he sees the unadulterated look of sincerity painted over his face, as the edge of his lips curl slightly in a smile of assurance. His mother observes her two boys fondly, her beautiful olive orbs drinking in wholly the view of the two men who mean the most to her, the two men who provided her with so much more than she expected from life. His heart starts to ache and feel heavy within his chest and he feels like he can't breathe, as if the air is too thick to filter into his lungs, he can feel himself gasping for air and all he can see is his two little hands. One hand is grasping onto his father's t-shirt whilst the other holds tightly onto the index finger of his mother, as he feels his stomach burn and curdle with a fear that's so strong he feels the persistent urge to vomit, to cry and to scream until it doesn't hurt anymore.
With a large intake of air and a raspy gasp he wrenches his eyes open, finding himself in the bed of his modern and minimalist apartment, his cheeks are wet with tears that had fallen. His heart seems to be pounding against his chest so hard that he swears it may burst through; ripping through his flesh in a manner that he thinks would somehow bring him relief. He continues to stare at the plain white canvas painted above him, trying to compose himself and eradicate the pain that seems to grip tightly around his heart twisting it ever so slowly in an agonising manner. After a few minutes he finally manages to gain control, his breathes even out and his heart rate has dropped considerably but the haunting remnants of that vivid dream, that memory, still lingers and the wet tracks beneath his eyes betray how much it still hurts. The thick dry fuzzy feelings within his mouth, coupled with the dull thuds that reverberate through his skull remind him of the stark and brutal reality of sobriety, and the fun and carefree night he had indulged in before. With that thought he tilts his head to the side to find the perfectly sculpted bare back of a mystery woman, her golden curls cascading over her shoulders and spilling onto the pillow hiding her face from view, and he knows he should remember her name; he should house some feelings of affection for her... but he doesn't. The all too common feeling of shame and self-hatred washes over him, consuming his entire body and flooding every single cell in his being with the fuel to his ever growing self-loathing. They would be so disappointed. That thought induces a shudder to convulse down his spine, causing him to sit up and swing his legs out of the bed, he stops for a moment waiting for the spinning contorting his mind and sight to cease before he grabs hold of a pair of boxers tossed aside on the floor, and pulls them on. Standing up the chill of the early morning air against his bare skin causes his shoulders to slump forward in a pathetic attempt to conserve heat, before he deduces what a wretched excuse of a human being he is and with a pitiable sigh, wipes his hands over his face in an attempt to dispel the helpless expression he knows adorns his face so readily. Walking over to the chest of draws he pulls out a plain grey t-shirt and pulls it over his head, before carding his fingers through his tousled dark crimson tresses and striding out of the room, leaving behind the transgressions of his drunk and desperate self.
The living space is much the same as the rest of his apartment, clean, crisp, simple and monotone the lack of character and colour echoing the hollow void and persistent feelings of loss that haunt him every day. He ambles listlessly towards the sink, procuring a glass he fills it before turning to face back into the room, leaning against the units he observes within the emptiness of the room the almost empty bottle of whiskey left on the coffee table and the two empty tumblers beside it. His gaze catches the sleek, slim line tablet left on the breakfast bar, and he knows that what he's about to do will do him no good but right now he needs to see it, he needs to see them. Settling the glass on the bar, he cautiously grabs the tablet before sitting himself on one of the stools, with deft fingers he finds the file he has revisited so many times, the footage he has replayed over and over again.
The video expands filling the whole screen and starts to play, it's an interview with Tony at one of his prestigious and annual charity balls and as always he takes centre stage, answering the questions the reporter asks with his ready wit and charming humour. However that's not the main focus for James, instead his gaze is fixed firmly on two figures in the distance behind Tony, to the unfamiliar eye it looks to be just another two people within a crowd of the rich and famous. It's not. The first of the two is a woman, her back is to the camera displaying the delicate milky expanse of her back that's exhibited perfectly by the black gown she's wearing, her crimson curls are pinned into an elegant up do, and she holds herself in a manner that is unmistakeably her. To the right of her is stood a strapping figure of a man, his muscular physique enhanced and flaunted by a well fitted tuxedo, he stands side on to the camera the light catching the golden colour of his classic sleek hairstyle. His gaze is fixed on the woman before him, and despite the distance James can see the familiar dimples of an adoring smile graced upon the man's lips, despite the heavy set anguish that forever lingers on him his heart softens and warms at the sight. The woman moves herself closer to the man and leans towards him her right hand reaching out and lovingly placing itself on his lapel, in a manner that seems wholly natural and ever so endearing. The gentlemen in response to her slight show of affection places his hand tenderly at the base of her back, his fingers softly brushing against her skin with his thumb resting in the dip of her spine. James ignores the incessant voices of Tony and the interviewer, his eyes fixed firmly on the two people he never knew too well, but who he yearns for so much, who he suffers for, his parents: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. At that moment the footage cuts back to the studio, before stopping abruptly, and James can feel that the facade he has held in place for so long start to shake and tremble with emotions that curdle and sour, simmering dangerously close to the surface. It finally becomes too much for him to handle as he lets out a gratuitous cry of excruciating pain and loss, one that echoes hauntingly in the empty silence that frequently occupies his home. In one swift movement he grabs the glass he had rested on the counter, and as his scream of agony continues to fill the air he launches it across the room. He watches as it makes contact with the wall and shatters into thousands of pieces, the delectable smash and tinkle of glass satisfying his outlet for rage, for anger, for the injustice of it all. Falling to his knees the once infuriated expression that had contorted his youthful features has now fallen away, and suddenly he looks to be the small child he once was clinging onto the parents who were unknowingly heading to their deaths. The tears fall down his cheeks with an unnerving and familiar ease, flowing at an exceptional speed over the contours of his cheeks as he allows the sorrow and grief he tries to fight, he tried to hide from, consume him wholly. He knows he should be able to cope with the truth of his past by now, but he can't, and the shame he feels at the man he has become poisons his soul progressively ever day. He should be so much better, they deserve so much better... they deserved so much more. They should have a son they would be proud of, not a man who can't deal with the weight of their absence, the power of their legacy or the undeniable love they held for him.